One foot. Then the other.

Again.

One foot. The other.

Repeat.

Step, step. Good.

“Great, that’s enough for today.”

That’s what Lindsay said earlier. She’s my physical therapist, and even though I’m supposed to call her Mrs. Howard, I don’t. She’s nice enough, though sometimes she also tries to be my psychological therapist when she makes me tell her about my life. I hate when she does that.

Today I tried to walk with her. They strapped me in this machine that’s half-submerged in water. It’s supposed to help me learn to move my legs, but it doesn’t. And the water is freezing.

Supposedly I’ll never walk again. That’s what the doctors told me. I was hit by a car and now both of my legs are paralyzed; they’ll never hold my weight again.

I grimace as I pinch my finger between the spokes of one of the wheels on my wheelchair while I roll out of Lindsay’s office.

“Let me push you.” My mom.

I attempt to speed up, but she grabs on anyway and pushes me in the chair. I’m helpless, as usual.

“What’s the point of physical therapy if they say I’ll never walk again?” I’d asked her earlier, before the therapy appointment.

I remember her silence before she answered. “They say it’s worth a try anyway.”

“I think it’s dumb.”

She’d sighed like she was disappointed, but in a pitiful way. “Just let them try to help you.” Then she’d skimmed her fingers across the back of my neck and my hairs pricked up. “Someone who doesn’t want help cannot be saved.”

“I don’t need saving.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue with me. All she’d said was, “Alright.”

And I’d made a mistake when I responded with, “I wish that car had killed me.”